Tell me all your secrets Sherlock Holmes
by The Cold East Wind
Summary: John, is hurt, Sherlock will say or do anything to keep him alive.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had rushed ahead of John in his usual fashion of impatience and long legs and had been caught off his game by the man they where after. The murderer in question was a particularly nasty fellow who liked to cut and carve up his victims until they bleed out, and had showed absolutely no conscience up to this point and promised to continued in this same vain. Sherlock's great strides ate up the distance between he and the killer, but the man spun sharply and swang his heavy bag of tools into the darkness and smashed them into the side of Sherlock's head, the pain barely had a chance to resister before Sherlock was out cold. John rounded the corner seconds later, his eyes locked with the criminal standing over Sherlock, before they darted to the pron figure of his friend on the ground, he looked back up at the man with a murderous sneer.

"You son of a bitch!" John advanced on the killer with two thoughts in mind. One he was going to beat this man within an inch of his miserable life, and two he wished he'd picked up his gun back at the first tousle he'd had with this madman. But all thoughts quieted as John, grabbed the man and muscle memory took over, pummeling him in the face and gut, staggering him backwards, the mans arms failed with his bag still in hand, he righted himself, swinging the bag wildly at John causing him to jump back, dodging the blow, but the killer was quick and pressed his advantage and stepped in close to John. John saw the knife flash in the moon light but it was too late. He felt the blade sink into his abdomen with blinding ice hot pain. John howled and pushed his assailant off him before he could withdraw the blade, and watched the man run off into the night. John fell to his knees holding the blade handle, willing himself not to vomit from pain. John looked down at the blood pouring from the wound.

"Bit not good." John slumped to the side and winced in pain, darkness creeping onto his field of vision.

Sherlock woak slowly at first, but the throb in his temple and the harsh damp pavement against his face sent tendrils of recognition screaming through every pore of his body. John! John had been...where? Behind him? Yes. But...that would mean...

"John." Sherlock got slowly to his hands and knees, his world spinning as he did so, trying to focus on reaching the crumpled figure a few feet in front of him. Sherlock took a deep breath and righted himself, keeping his head hung low as he staggered toward John. He sunk back down next to him and felt a sickening horror when the full sight of John became clear. Blood ran from Johns body in slow black rivulet, glistening in the moon light, and darkening his jeans to a velvet black color. Sherlock was gripped by a fear and pain the likes of which he'd never known. He whispered as if speaking too loudly may cause further damage.

"John?" His voice sounded strange to him, far off and stricken. No answer. Deep shaken breath. "John please."

"Please...what?...Please...get the milk?" Johns voice was hushed and barely audible, but to Sherlock's ears it was a chorus of angels, he almost laughed with joy.

"Don't die. Lestrade, will be here any second." As if on cue, the blaring of serine could be heard growing louder in the distance.

"Trying...not...to. Hard." John's eyes drifted open then closed again. Sherlock tried to keep the panic out of his voice as tears clouded his vision and he ached to have the ugly blade out of his perfectly flawed beautiful solider. He wondered briefly when he had decided it was acceptable to think things like that about John outside of his mind palace. Sherlock, pushed the thought aside.

"John you must try with all your strength not to die. I have..." Sherlock wasn't sure where he was going with this, he just knew he would say or do anything to keep John alive. "A secret...yes I have a secret to tell you which I obviously can not do, if you insist on dying." Sherlock sounded far more cavalier then he felt. What he felt was new, and not the least bit new and interesting, no, this was terrifying. Sherlock's body trimbled, his chest felt like lead, and the tears where dangerously close. He wanted John, no needed John, to fix this. And the only way he could do that was to live.

"Secret." That was the last word Sherlock heard from Johns lips as he fell over completely and was engulfed by emergency personnel. Sherlock looked on in paralyzed anguish, his view completely obstructed yet unwavering, lest he miss the slightest glimpse of John.

"Sherlock, get up." Lestrade, grabbed his upper arm and pulled him to his feet with ease. "Come on then, you'll ride to hospital with me." Lestrade, tried to guide Sherlock's path, but he pulled away just enough.

"No. I need John. No. That's not right. Wrong. John. John needs me. I have to go...go with them." Sherlock turned toward the ambulance where John was being loaded, a confused frown crossed his face. The gears of his mind had ground to a halt. Frozen, by this feeling, that was spreading from his chest, and now corrupting his mind.

"Sherlock, the EMT's need room to do their job. I'll get you there. I promise."

Lestrade, spoke in a tone, Sherlock recognized from long ago. It was the voice of reason, the same calm reassuring tones that had convinced a young junkie that perhaps this world still held some surprises. He had been right then, Sherlock trusted him to be right now.

Lestrade, pulled into the ambulance bay just as the EMTs, where wheeling John around the corner.

The wait was short but agonizing. Sherlock normally looked at death with a clinical detachment, seeing it for the first time so clearly as personal and deeply meaningful was crippling.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" A tall doctor called out into the waiting room, both Sherlock and Lestrade, stood as the man came toward them. "And this must be Sherlock Holmes, the great detective." The doctor was chipper Sherlock thought as he looked on in confusion at the mans proffered hand. Obviously this was the doctor who had worked on John, and equally obvious to Sherlock was the fact that he had very little regard for his patients. Lestrade took the doctors hand before things could get awkward and asked after John.

"So how's our patient?" Lestrade, asked with as much calm as he could, with Sherlock standing at his side practically vibrating with outrage at this mans causal air and worry over Johns condition.

"Yes, yes of course. Nicked liver, quite a bit of blood loss." Sherlock swayed noticeably on his feet at the words. Lestrade put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Is he alive?!" Sherlock yelled in the doctors face, completely out of patience.

"Well yes of course. Keeps mumbling something or other about secrets." After hearing this news Sherlock wasn't going to wait another second. He pushed pass the doctor and headed for recovery. Lestrade followed knowing he would have to explain the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes as he passed. Sherlock opened the door slowly and was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. John was peaceful, his color was normal and he was breathing on his own, making small sounds that Sherlock couldn't make out from across the room. Sherlock closed the distance and rested a hand on Johns bicep leaning in to hear the whispered words.

"Sherrrrlock. Sherlock. Secret." Well this was a turn up. At the time Sherlock would have sold his soul to the devil (if he believed in that sort of thing) if it would have kept John alive. Out of desperation and suddenly confronted with the possibility of losing John, Sherlock had thought of the one thing he wanted John desperately to know, his secret. But now it looked like John would be fine, and there was no need for silly confessions. Plus statistically speaking it was highly unlikely that John, would even remember the conversation due to the extreme trauma of the whole situation. Well fingers crossed anyway, Sherlock thought.

"Sherlock, if you try to pick me up I swear..." John narrowed his eyes at the man who was bent over about to scoop him up.

"What? I was trying to I don't know...help."

"Don't." There was no question that Captain John Watson, did not need any help pain or no pain. Sherlock nodded and let John led the way, carful to stay well back, so as not to crowd him, and in case he stumbled. Once John was settled on the couch, Sherlock brought tea, which he'd made himself. John did not let this go unnoticed

"Look at you." John cooed. Sherlock gave a mock curtsy, before sitting down the tray and serving.

"Sit with me." Is what John said. What he wanted to say was that he'd missed Sherlock and just wanted him close for awhile.

"If you like." Sherlock said in a voice that was more warm and soothing then the tea, as he settled in next to John. Sherlock had angled the telly toward the sofa, and they watched a "Black Mirror" marathon until John fell asleep against Sherlock's shoulder. John's measured breathing was calming Sherlock looked down on Johns face for a monument before resting his own dark curls against the blond head and felt his heart ached. This man. This remarkable person. Sherlock couldn't help but think "What a piece of work is man." This John Hamish Watson. Sherlock whispered his secret into Johns soft sun bleached hair.

"I'm yours. All and forever." Sherlock let his eyes drift closed and he walked with John hand in hand in the garden of his mind palace.

Lestrade's voice, broke through Sherlock's mind palace walls, bringing him sharply back to Barker St. John blinked awake and held his head up as well.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson told me to let myself up, so here I am." He stopped just inside the door and waited for John and Sherlock to right themselves.

"You didn't text me. You came right here from the station house. Something's wrong. With John?" Sherlock ripped the paper from Greg's hand before he could truly offer it to him.

"Well I thought you'd want to see it, so you could you know...deduce it or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You don't deduce an inanimate object. You extrapolate data." Sherlock shook his head woefully as he read. The data he found there made his throat tighten.

~Mr. Holmes, I enjoyed my time with your doctor so much. I think I'd like to see him again. Would you mind?~

Sherlock's blood ran cold, he felt tears sting his eyes and herd his heart pounding in his ears. John, saw the moment Sherlock's eyes went blank and struggled quickly up off the sofa to his side.

"Sherlock. Right here. Look at me." Johns voice pulled him back.

"John." Sherlock said his name like a gift. He turned on Lestrade, practically manic. "When did this arrive?"

"Hour ago. Got here as fast as I could. Look, I get it. It's troubling. But it's not as if he knows where to find him." Lestrade, saw the need to reason with Sherlock.

By this time John had taken the letter and read it himself.

"John, you're going to Mycroft's." Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket. "His home is a fortress. You'll be safe there."

"Sherlock, put your mobile away."

"I can't keep you safe here!" Sherlock's voice was frantic and he paced back and forth like a caged panther.

"Stop." Johns tone said there was no room for disobedience. Sherlock's feet stopped as if they where controlled by the sound of Johns voice alone. Lestrade, could say he was there the moment the tide turned between John and Sherlock. When things changed to something more. Well that was until.

"Lestrade, could you give us a minute." This was not a question.

"Yeah, I'll just..." Lestrade, let the words trail off as he went down the stairs. John came to stand in front of Sherlock, in his personal space, John took Sherlock's hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. Sherlock's breath jerked and he closed his eyes.

"Look at me. You don't keep me safe. We. Keep each other safe. Now if you want to go to Mycroft's, fine, we'll go. We. Will. Go. Understood?" John tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

"John this man, this butcher, he creeps in under cover of darkness, drugs his victims while they sleep and then dissects them while their still alive." Sherlock was on the verge of tears, the image of these thing happening to John clear in his mind.

"We'll think of something yeah."

With that said John reached a hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck guiding him down to meet his lips, in what was little more then warmth and texture pressed together for the space of what was no more then three second. John walked away as if this happened everyday. Sherlock blinked after Johns retreating back. He was simply made of questions.

"I know. We'll talk later, right now I need a pain pill." John said without looking back.

John sat the empty glass down and walked slowly back to the sitting room he was in pain, but they needed to talk. If not about the kiss, then at least about the case. Sherlock was still standing by the sofa right where he'd left him.

"Come on then." John gestured towards Sherlock's chair as he took his own. Sherlock sat down and tried to compose himself. He cleared his throat.

"So, that was..." Sherlock began, but John, cut in.

"Sherlock. I don't see any reason for us to leave Baker St. plus it would leave Mrs. Hudson, unprotected" Sherlock raised an eyebrow brow, understanding that they where obviously putting that conversation on the back burner.

"Irrelevant. He doesn't hunt woman. He prefers men." Sherlock some how managed to resist the urge to say that it seemed John did as well.

"So he's just as likely to come after you as he is me."

"No. He's...like an animal that's tasted blood. He's had you, so to speak. And he wants more. To finish what he started." Sherlock seemed to have trouble explaining the whole thing as if it where distasteful. "John, won't you just..."

"No. I've told you how this works. We go. Or we stay. Up to you."

"Fine. But you're not going to like the solution. If we stay, we stay together." Sherlock couldn't believe what his was suggesting, but it had to be done if John refused to leave.

"That's what I said." John had a confused furrowed brow.

"Same room. Safety in numbers and all." Sherlock said quickly and looked away. John, smiled.

"And here I thought the kiss had you rattled." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut, his lips a thin line. He tried again.

"We should make sleeping arrangements." Sherlock tried to sound matter of fact.

"Good. Yours, and I sleep on the right. I'll be in the loo if you need me."

John, went through his night time routine as usual, when he was done he headed for Sherlock's room, a room he'd been in countless times, but tonight it felt different. The room seemed ethereal as if all the secrets luxuries of the room breathed their air into it and anyone who entered. To look at it things seemed rather simple, but John knew the posh secrets of this space. The bed itself was large, overly so for just one person, it was also garishly expensive, John had ripped the sheets off one day for to launder to revile a beautiful blue and white cheeked Hastens Vividus. John had later learned it had been a gift from a Swedish client that was close to the royal family. The bedding was raw silk, and cashmere (as was Sherlock's favorite blue scarf, which was why the man himself smelled of it almost constantly) the periodic table of elements was actually hand drawn by some scientists. The scroll above his bed was some thousand year old thing from one Japanese dynasty or another given to him by a member of the Yakuza. There where other bits and bobs too, a trinket that may or may not have been Faberge, a pair of spectacles that belonged to Albeit Einstein, an original copy of "Faust" by Goethe, the list went on and on. But none more valuable then the occupant himself. At least not for John anyway. He treasured Sherlock above all else, and he was bone tired of fighting it. That's why John, had thrown caution to the wind and kisses him. Their lives where for the most part dangerous and unpredictable. If any moment could be their last then the ones in between needed to be lived to the fullest. On cue, Sherlock walked in from the bathroom door. Blue silk clung to his damp skin, his wet curls now perfect individual ringlets. John had to turn away from the sight of him, because he was pretty sure that if he didn't he was going to attack him. Instead John climbed into bed and cut off his light. John watched as Sherlock pulled on a pair of pants and nothing else, God this was going to be a long night. John prayed that the killer would show up. Sherlock cut off his light. As soon as it was dark he spoke.

"John?" The question clear in his tone.

"Sherlock this doesn't have to be complicated."

"Alright." He sounded unsure. He settled his body next to John but not quit touching.

"Do you know why I kissed you?" John was straight forward.

Sherlock gave it some thought and answered honestly.

"No."

"Because you needed me to." Sherlock sucked in a shocked little breath, and John could almost see the look of indignation on his face. "How did it feel when I kissed you?"

"I don't know." Sherlock answered quickly in a high pitch tone.

"Described it." John went on.

"I can't."

"Try." Sherlock brushed up against Johns side and started to move away. John grabbed his wrist under the covers and held him there.

"It felt...quiet." Sherlock seemed to surprise himself.

"So your saying, that your mind felt quiet."

"Yes."

"What dose it normally feel like?" John was driving home his point.

"Chaos." Sherlock said sadly.

"That's why I kissed you."

"You are the silence in the mayhem."

"If you let me be, yes." John, turned his head and kissed Sherlock's temple. "Now sleep."

"Yes John." Sherlock rolled to his side and rested his mostly naked body against John. Jesus this was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Afghanistan had made John a very light, discerning sleeper. He could tell the difference between the normal sounds of the flat from something out of the ordinary. This was the ladder. John disentangled himself from a still sleeping Sherlock, wished he had brought his gun from upstairs, and creeped into the sitting room. The intruder was standing over the desk when John rushed behind him and placed the man in a choke hold. He struggled and sputtered as John increased pressure while trying to decide if he was going to break his neck or not. But John lost that option when the man swung his left elbow into Johns stitches dropping him to the floor. Sherlock had heard the commotion and had rushed to the sitting room just in time to catch the man before he made the stairs. Sherlock ducked a blow and swung up into the mans jaw, staggering him backwards. He smacked his head on the table on the way down, knocking him out. Sherlock flipped on the lights to find John on the floor in a hep, bleeding.

"You need hospital." Sherlock was kneeling on the floor in front of John.

"For what a doctor? I'll be fine. You can patch me up." Sherlock nodded and helped John walk to the sofa.

John, looked down at the man on the floor.

"That's not him." Said John.

"No it's not." Sherlock kicked at the mans leg as he walked past to get the first aid kit from the loo.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson, yelled up the steps.

"Call the police Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock called back down. There was no need to say send an ambulance or tell them to hurry, because a call from 221b Baker St. meant all that anyway.

Sherlock came back and sat on the table in front of John, with the kit open on the table next to him. He pulled Johns t-shirt gently over his head and just looked at him for a moment. Head tilted to the side, eyes a bit glassy, he placed his palm flat on Johns chest and closed his eyes letting his hand travel across his warm skin. John watched Sherlock become in that moment what he was sure was going to be a very sexual creature, in the near future, but not right now. John grabbed his wrist, hard. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his lips barely parted, his breathing just a little erratic. John felt his cock jump. Christ Sherlock was going to be a handful.

"Bleeding." John cast his eyes down to the busted stitches. Sherlock's eyes roamed a little farther, but then came back to the task at hand. John had to admit that Sherlock was excellent at suturing, his violinist fingers where nimble and delicate. John wished for all the world that the man had been more heavily handed, because the light touches on his skin, Sherlock's curls falling forward and brushing his chest, coupled with all that pale naked skin so close. John was using every single day of military training he'd ever had to keep from getting a raging hard on.

"John, you're sweating. Is it infected? It doesn't look infected."

John huffed and blew his breath, eyes closed.

"It's not infected. Are you done?" John opened his eyes.

"I'd say so, yes." Sherlock stood up, his cock inches away from Johns face. John closed his eyes.

"Move! You great bloody git!" John shoved Sherlock aside. And thank god that's when Scotland Yard arrived.

"What took you so long?" John sounded like a man suffering.

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look.

Lestrade, two other officers and two EMTs pushed into the space.

"Oi. What's all this then?" Lestrade, looked at the man on the floor as one EMT, checked him over the other tried to get at Johns wound but he waved him away.

"I think he's something of a spy" Sherlock went to the desk where the man had been looking. "He was getting the lay of the flat, and making certain he had the right place." John watched as one of the officers couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's bottom as he moved about.

"Sherlock. Go put some clothes on." John was using that tone that made everyone in the room stand a little straighter. Sherlock spoke not a word and was gone. Lestrade was impressed. John stood up put his shirt back on and waited. Sherlock came back out fully dressed in his Schofield and Smith midnight blue suit and tailored shirt to match. John wasn't sure this was much better considering the way the officer was still eyeing Sherlock's every move. In the mean time, the intruder came to. Lestrade, let Sherlock, question the man and he confirmed what Sherlock had thought. He'd been hired by the butcher as Sherlock had taken to calling him, he was told to come to this address, make certain that at least John lived there and then report back to the butcher. The intruder claimed to have no other connection to the man.

"John, you know I need to go to the meeting point." Sherlock was putting on his coat as he spoke.

"Absolutely not."

"John you're being unreasonable." Sherlock almost stomped his foot.

"If you think I'm going to let you go after this...this butcher on your own you're madder then I thought." John was tired and his side hurt and just wanted Sherlock to take off that damn perfect suit of his and come back to bed. But John, knew better. And in truth, he also knew he was being unreasonable. "I'm coming with you."

"No!" Both Sherlock and Lestrade spoke and looked appalled at the idea.

"Look, John, I'll keep him safe. Won't let him out of my sight."

"We're running out of time." He may not have said the words but Sherlock's eyes where pleading.

"Fine. But you do exactly as Lestrade says." Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes by way of answer, and darted for the stairs. He re emerged just as quickly, grabbing John by his shoulders and pressed kiss to his lips. Only to turn and rush back out.

John, smiled. Lestrade, stood slack jawed. The other two officers exchanged looks of confusion.

"Well don't just stand there. Go after him!" John, ordered the officers.

"Finally." Lestrade grinned, as hit the stairs.

"Piss off." John called after good naturally.


	3. Chapter 3

John set about tidying the flat, the scrap having left it in more of a shambles then usual and with nothing else to do and so fell into thinking about he and Sherlock's burgeoning relationship. It seemed that the unattainable genius was finally his. Sherlock had folded sweetly into him last night as if it had been their way for a life time. The man was a vine, twisting and twinning his way around Johns body the same way he'd done to Johns heart all those years ago. He fit into the crook of Johns shoulder perfectly, the weight of him there creating a warm soothing pressure on his scar. They had slotted together from one position to another throughout the night subconsciously/consciously exploring each other, hands roaming and resting on warm exposed flesh, it had been dreamlike perfection. John, sign at the pleasant thoughts and noticed he was sitting in his chair. How did he get there? He wondered where Sherlock was in that moment.

"Bollocks!" Realization hit John like a ton of bricks. Sherlock hadn't told John where the meeting point was, and there could only be one reason for that. The location must have been an obvious trap. He texted Sherlock, frantic.

Sherlock where are you?

JW-

No answer. Shit shit shit. John sprinted up to his room, (pain be damned) threw on some clothes and called Lestrade.

"Where are you?" John asked breathlessly, as he stepped out of Baker St. looking for a cab.

"Well, ugh." There was clear hesitation in Lestrade's voice. John stopped in mid motion, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He's not with you is he?" But John didn't really need an answer. He knew.

"Gave us the slip soon as we got here. But the parks not that big, we'll find him."

"Park. Which park?" John was nearing panic, as he climbed into the back of a cab.

"Finsbury."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's not in the park. He's in the revisor. It's a trap Lestrade." John felt his vision swim before his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

In order to kill four grown men in their homes, in their sleep, one needs to be clever. This man was. So much so that he had even managed to send Sherlock a clue through his lackey. Hornsey Wood Reservoir, is what the idiot had said first, when he told Sherlock the meeting place he had later changed it to Finsbury Park. And even though the two where close in distance there was no way for even the foolish to confuse the two. The lackey must have himself met the butcher at Hornsby Wood. That's where Sherlock would find him. Getting away from New Scotland Yards finest, well that was the easy part. Sherlock could be quite the actor when the need called for it. The hard part, had been not responding to Johns text. He knew that John would worry. He knew that John would come after him. But Sherlock had to ignore the guilt? He felt. This monster needed to be dealt with, innocence people where dying and as if that weren't enough, he had hurt John. And that Sherlock would simply not let stand.

Finsbury Park, or Hornsey Wood Reservoir was a gargantuan labyrinth of stunning brick archways and after ten minutes of silent wondering Sherlock found what he was looking for. A long wooden table covered from one end to the other in bright shining metal. Knifes. Curved ones, serrated ones, straight ones, and long ones just like the one the killer had left stuck in John.

"No, not you, " A voice echoed off the millions of red bricks from some where off in the darkness. "Tall and thin, pale. Not golden like the other one." The man's voice was a drawl, each word too long, too breathy.

"Show yourself." Sherlock's own deep baritone resonated into the dark surroundings. "Or are you too much of a coward? Always hiding in the dark and shadows." Sherlock taunted the man, hoping to draw him out. But this psychopath was not goaded. Instead he was the one doing the provoking.

"I want the other one. The one with the golden skin. Watch his blood run red over his beautiful golden skin split open." The sick nasty words reverberated off the walls and made Sherlocks skin crawl. His eyes scanning the darkness for movement. There! Sherlock moved back as the man jumped from the shadows swinging wildly and although Sherlock was by no means a fighter, he was still quite strong, and he was after all a genius. Sherlock, side stepped as the killer lunged at him and used his momentum to push the man to the ground. The butcher scrambled up reaching for the table full of knives. Sherlock, grabbed the closet blade and stepped back at the ready.

"I'll bleed you, but not the way I'll bleed him. The golden one." The butcher smiled slow and vile.

"Stop it!" Sherlock spat as they circled each other.

"That's what he'll say. But I won't stop, not until he bleeds his life away for me. Just like all the others." That's when he lasted out, messy but quick, catching Sherlock across the chest opening a long gash. Sherlock hissed in pain but was not deterred.

"You will never touch John Watson again." Sherlock had positioned the killer in front of the table where he wanted him, that had been the reason for the circling and stalking, the reason Sherlock had pushed himself close enough to get cut, to end this. Sherlock, pressed his advantage and shoved the man hard into the table behind him. He fell back against the wood, sending a clatter of metal to the ground his own knife with it and he looked behind him to see it all rain down, and that's when Sherlock struck the fatal blow. Sherlock dropped his own weapon and crowed into this monsters personal space he placed one large hand at the back of the mans head and held his chin with the other, their eyes met for the briefest of seconds shocked disbelief meeting cold determination before Sherlock twisted sharply with all the force he could muster, snapping the mans neck in one smooth motion.

When Sherlock pulled himself up out of the resivor it was to a crowd of police and EMTs, but the only person Sherlock saw was John, the rest was just noise. John Watson, scanning the crowd with anxious worried eyes, that fell on Sherlock the second he was clear of the entrance. Sherlock smiled wide at the sight of John, knowing that he was safe, happy in that knowledge he collapsed into a hep on the ground, not unconscious, just exhausted. And then John was there on the ground with him. Right there, holding his face gently in both hands speaking words that Sherlock never thought anyone would be saying to him, let alone a man as good as John. Those deep ocean blue eyes where worth every bit of every single thing Sherlock had been through or would go through in this life. And then there was the voice. Johns voice had always made Sherlock think of hot tea, strong not too over powering with a hit of sweet.

"Sherlock love, look at me. Can you hear me?" Johns voice was gentle, but this wasn't his doctor voice, this was something new and Sherlock couldn't help but think, is this voice mine? Could there be a voice just for the person that John calls his love? And was that now me? As lovely as the thoughts were the was more pressing business to deal with right now. Sherlock needed stitches and Lestrade needed answers. Thankfully Sherlock's wound was shallow enough that John was able to stitch his chest at the crime scene, while he gave Lestrade all the details of what happened below. John had listened to Sherlock tell his story without speaking a word. Now the silent in the cab throbbed more then the pain of his chest if you had asked Sherlock. Once home Sherlock showered and changed into his flat attire (threadbare t-shirt and paper thin pajama paints) and took his chair in the sitting room. John set about making tea still silent.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock stated.

"Yes. I am. Brilliant that." John put Sherlock's tea on the arm of his chair and sat down.

"I can hardly see how you could be angry. Not only was this man a killer, and a horrible person it was more or less self-defense."

"You think I'm upset with you because you killed a man?" John was stunned.

"Obviously."

"Wrong. Obviously wrong. I know why you did what you did. If it had been you he hurt I would have done the same. You killed him, because he hurt me. And I couldn't care less. I'm angry because you put yourself in danger."

"I didn't have a choice. He would have kept coming for you and I had to stop him at all cost."

"And if the cost had been your life?"

"Then so be it. Your safety..."

"No, Sherlock not 'so be it.' Don't you understand, I can not live without you! And that's not wide eyed love talking, its a fact! You are my reason for everything. Have been since the the second I gave you my god damn mobile. I essentially handed you my heart that day. I love you. In every way. And at this point I know, I can't go on without you. That's why I'm angry. I'm nothing without you." John waited. He'd said the words. He hadn't intended this to be the way he confessed his feelings, but with Sherlock Holmes things rarely go to plan.

"You love me?" Sherlock's voice was small.

"You lovely idiot. Course I do."

They went to bed, knackered beyond words. They kissed, noses bumped and nuzzled into each other's necks, they touched, hands gliding over lean muscle exploring, thighs brushing, they melted into one another all arms and legs and they slept like the dead.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days and three long nights had passed since the case had closed, and John and Sherlock had been spent their days much the same as always, Sherlock solving cases that where fours or fives by text, and simply ignoring anything less, John reading, making tea, and doing a bit of tidying around Sherlock's less explosive of experiments. They're nights, had been...well...tentative and sweet if not a little frustrating. John, "the saint" not wanting to push Sherlock, into anything he wasn't ready for, just enjoying and revealing in the fact that this was real. Sherlock, had seemed edgy and John didn't know what to make of it. Was Sherlock having second thoughts and realizing that this was not after all what the genius had wanted?

"I think we should sleep apart." Sherlock said abruptly and a little too loudly standing just inside the door of the loo watching John. He had been acting a little high strung and now John knew why.

"What! Why? I mean, why? What's wrong?" John felt fear flar up.

"Because John, I find that I want to do...things...with you. And...I...want." He spoke the words slowly as if trying to understand them himself. John thought for a silent moment, watching Sherlock thought his reflection in the mirror who was now gazing at his naked feet on the cold bathroom tile. The fact that Sherlock wanted him and hearing him say those words was so incredibly arousing, that when John did speak, it was with a voice laden with lust. John turned towards Sherlock.

"Then do them." The words were simple every day words and they shouldn't have made Sherlock feel a wash in heat, they shouldn't have made his breath heavy and his blood buzz in his ears, but they did.

"I'm yours. All and forever." John repeat Sherlock's own words and watched as his eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in understanding. Sherlock watched John walk over to where he was standing. "Yes. I heard you." John slipped his hand up under the tail of Sherlock's t-shirt, up over his rib cage, and brushed the pad of each finger deliberately over Sherlock's taunt nipple. Sherlock shivered, and made a struggling breath, it was beautiful to watch. Sherlock slid down the wall a bit, pressed his shoulders back and arched up. John ran his thumb over Sherlock's nipple and then let his hand mark a path behind Sherlock's back and down to his tail bone where John pressed Sherlock into John's growing reaction.

"Now, tell me all your secrets Sherlock Holmes."

This John said just before he pulled Sherlock's shit up and started kissing his chest, sucking a deep red/purple make on his peck, moving his lips down Sherlock's fluttering stomach, Johns hands held Sherlock's narrow hips as he kissed and licked at his hip bone. Sherlock ran his hands over Johns shoulders rubbing and squeezing, his fingers brushed the nap of John's neck, up into his short crisp hair pressing him closer.

"My bed sheets smell like you. And it makes me hard."

It was a whisper, just like a secret. Sherlock went on. "I want your fingerprints all over my body, I want you inside me, I want to swallow you completely." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble, each word sounded like hunger. John couldn't speak, couldn't think, all John could do was moan and lick and kiss and want. And right now he wanted to suck every one of Sherlocks secrets out of him. John ran his mouth over the bulge of Sherlock's cock through his black cotton pants. Pleasure so intense shot through Sherlock making him arced sharply and thunk the back of his head against the wall. John repeated the motion, stroking him with his lips, as John then pushed his hands into the back of Sherlock's pants and kneaded his plush bottom at the same time.

"John...I...oh god...I...can't." Sherlock's thighs quivered, and John could feel the strain in Sherlock's body.

"Bedroom Love?" Johns voice was heavy and dark as he came up and kissed and biting the hollow of Sherlock's beautiful neck.

"Please." Sherlock could hardly speak or stand and clung to John.

Sherlock did indeed become, a very sexual creature, allowing John to lavish his body, in all manners of sweet debauchery. And also giving a far bit himself.

Once they slipped into Sherlock's bedroom, and down onto his lush bed, John took Sherlock in his mouth and the man fairy purred, aching his hips up to met John's mouth digging his heels into the bed whispering, pleading, praying John's name over and over, begging for release. But John would not be so kind, he pressed slick fingers into Sherlock's body, deep and rhythmic driving Sherlock mad. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen, Sherlock, pale skin dotted with bit marks, John's name on his swollen lips, and his cock flushed and hard against his belly. That was until Sherlock reached his long slender fingers around the thick length of Johns cock twisting and rubbing slick over the head.

"I want you. I want you." Sherlock panted as he stroked John and John stroked him. This time John was kind and with gentle steady pressure buried his cock into Sherlock's unimaginable heat.

"Fuck, oh god fuck yes Sherlock, Jesus." Sherlock rocked his hips to met John's thrust, grinding into John grabbing John's bottom, grabbing his own cock and pumping into his fist in sharp jerky movements.

"Fuck John, oh fuck, fuck, Christ oh my...oh my... goo...oh my goooood! Fuck me!"

Those words. John could no long hold back. The sight of his cock, slick and wet in and out of Sherlock's body, the thick white cum covering Sherlock's belly and between his fingers as he slowly ran his hand up and down and over the head of his cock still kicking his hips up to bring John's cock flush with his bottom. John came, so hard he thought bones would snap, so completely he felt his heart would stop, so blissfully he was undone. The power of Sherlock Holmes.

It was an hour before two sticky bodies with numb limbs started to move. John stayed resting on his back, the sheet pulled just to the top of a nest of dark golden curls. Sherlock propped on his side head resting in his right hand, his left on Johns chest, fingers cataloging his scar.

"I feel as though I have sufficiently told you all my secrets." The deep thunder of Sherlock's voice made into smooth molten honey. John smiled wickedly without opening his eyes.

"Sufficiently Love, would be selling yourself woefully short."


End file.
